


You're Dirty, You're Beautiful

by azephirin



Category: Fast and the Furious (2001 2003 2006 2009)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Canada, Community: help_haiti, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Montreal, Post-Canon, movies - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-23
Updated: 2010-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>There's only things I can do to show you that I am with you.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Dirty, You're Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

>   
> **Spoilers:** For the _Fast &amp; Furious_ series, only vague implications as to the ending of the fourth movie. There are spoilers in dialogue for several other movies, including _My Beautiful Laundrette, Old Yeller_, and _Traffic_.  
> **Disclaimer**: Neither Brian O'Connor nor Dominic Toretto belong to me. Woe. Title and summary are lines from _My Beautiful Laundrette_.  
> **Author’s note:** Written for [](http://heeroluva.livejournal.com/profile)[**heeroluva**](http://heeroluva.livejournal.com/), who bid on me for [](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti/profile)[**help_haiti**](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti/). Thanks to [](http://dark-reaction.livejournal.com/profile)[**dark_reaction**](http://dark-reaction.livejournal.com/) for helping me hash out an initial idea for this, and to [](http://escritoireazul.livejournal.com/profile)[**escritoireazul**](http://escritoireazul.livejournal.com/), [](http://eustacia-vye28.livejournal.com/profile)[**eustacia_vye28**](http://eustacia-vye28.livejournal.com/), [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[**fannishliss**](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/), [](http://gretazreta.livejournal.com/profile)[**gretazreta**](http://gretazreta.livejournal.com/), [](http://ninhursag.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninhursag**](http://ninhursag.dreamwidth.org/), and [](http://topaz119.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz119**](http://topaz119.livejournal.com/) for encouragement.

Winter in Montreal is frigid, a biting cold completely new to all of them. The apartment is never warm enough: cranking the thermostat up to eighty doesn’t do much except raise their heating bills. The wind is ferocious, like nothing Brian’s ever heard before, rattling their windows like a thief demanding entrance. Despite what all the priests said, Brian thinks, hell isn’t hot. It’s unrelentingly, unmercifully cold.

Mia’s taken to the city, though: wearing long sleek skirts and knee-high boots, her dark hair thick and glossy as always, she seems to have slotted right into the cosmopolitan, semi-European feel of the city, picking up French quickly and almost immediately finding a waitressing job. Determined as always.

He and Dom, Brian thinks, are a little slower.

+||+||+

Brian’s working construction, with the occasional bartending gig at a place on Ste-Catherine; Dom, of course, is working at a garage. All of it, of course, their jobs and Mia’s, are off the books, the only way they can be.

Brian comes home from the bar on a Friday night, exhausted but wired the way he always is after his shifts, to find Dom in the living room, staring at the television. The rest of the apartment is quiet. “Mia asleep?” Brian asks.

Dom shakes his head. “No. Out.”

“What are you watching?” Brian asks.

Dom looks at the TV as though it might be able to provide an answer, then admits, “I’m not sure. Some movie.”

Brian recognizes the scene: several women, one pregnant and very beautiful, sitting at a table in a restaurant. They’re drinking wine, and the pregnant woman tells her friends that in Europe, where she’s from, a little bit of red wine is considered salutary during pregnancy.

“_Traffic_,” Brian says. The woman’s name comes to him: Catherine Zeta-Jones. “It came out a few years ago. It’s good, but kind of depressing.”

Dom shrugs, then nods at the screen. “She’s pretty hot.”

“Hell yeah. Married to a douchebag in real life, though.”

Dom snorts. “Of course you’d know.”

“Know that Catherine Zeta-Jones is married to Michael Douglas? That’s one of those things that normal people know, Dom. Like who the president is, and who’s in the Super Bowl, and who’s married to what douchebag.”

Dom snorts again, but he doesn’t argue, and Brian goes into the kitchen for a beer. “You want?” he asks, holding up a bottle of St-Amboise. Dom nods, and Brian opens one for him, too, then goes back into the living room and takes the other end of the couch.  
Dom’s got a good act going, the kind where you might think the only kinds of movies he likes feature big explosions and bigger breasts, but he’ll settle into something plotty and complicated, and enjoy it, as long as he catches it at the very beginning. He can’t start in the middle; he needs to know the whole story. It’s been a while since Brian’s seen _Traffic_, but he seems to remember this scene as towards the beginning. And, true to form, after a few minutes Dom kicks his feet up on the coffee table, and the silence is companionable and quiet.

“Mia’d like this,” Dom says after while.

Unsurprisingly, Mia likes movies with plots, characters, themes—meaning. “Yeah,” Brian agrees. “She would.”

“She always liked the chick movies,” Dom says, which isn’t true, but works as well as anything to harass Brian.

“Remind me who got misty-eyed at _Old Yeller_? And why were you watching that, anyway?”

“Fuck you, it was on. And the dog gets shot, man. They shoot the dog at the end!”

“I’m just saying, Dom, you’re a grown man.”

Dom raises a finger and goes back to the movie.

  


+||+||+

“Shit,” Dom says, watching the camera pan out as Benicio del Toro treads water in a clear blue pool. “You weren’t kidding about depressing.”

“What makes you say that now?” There’s a lot of depressing in this movie.

Dom shakes his head. “Just…the idea that anybody can be bought.”

“You don’t think so?”

Dom looks at Brian out of the corner of his eye. “I guess you’d know.”

With effort, Brian suppresses a reaction. “I just think anybody has their price,” he says after a moment. “If they’re desperate enough.”  
There’s another pause, and then Dom says, “No, I’m serious. I mean, as a cop and as an FBI agent—you probably would know. You saw what happened when people did get that desperate.”

Brian shrugs. “Sometimes. Sometimes it was desperation. But sometimes it was just greed. What they had wasn’t enough.”

“Even them,” says Dom. “They had their price. It just wasn't all that high.”

At this, Brian has to laugh, and Dom smiles, too, behind his beer bottle.

“So low, you can’t even imagine,” Brian says.

“It’s a sad world,” Dom comments, and he’s smiling, but Brian gets the feeling that it isn’t a joke.

  


+||+||+

By the end of the movie—it’s long—they’ve had a couple more beers. Dom shakes his head. “Man, you weren’t kidding. That was depressing. Shit, the cop sells out, the mom becomes a drug trafficker….”

“I told you,” Brian says, and Dom responds with a baleful glare.

Brian stretches. “What else is on? I’m sure we can find a romantic comedy if you want something more cheerful.”

Dom gives him the finger again, but without malice, and goes into the kitchen. “You want another?”

“Sure, why not. Where’d Mia go, anyway?”

“Out with some guy.”

Something clicks inside Brian’s head, and he says, “And of course you’re not waiting up or anything.”

“Mia’s an adult,” Dom mutters. “She can do what she wants.”

Brian sinks back down onto the couch and drops his feet onto the coffee table. “Sure. And her brother can still wait up for her. Because she’s an adult and everything.”

“It’s a big city,” Dom says.

“Since Mia didn’t grow up in a a big city. Like, say, L.A.”

“Shut the fuck up, man. You had a sister, you’d do the same thing.”

“If she ever brings a guy home, I’ll be right next to you with the shotgun,” Brian admits.

Dom snorts. “Better be careful you don’t shoot yourself with it, then.”

This time Brian’s the one to raise his middle finger. When Dom comes back, though, Brian says, “You know it’s not…that Mia and I aren’t like that now, right?”

Dom rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I kind of guessed by the fact that she’s out with some other dude.” He drops a beer in front of Brian, then sits back down on the couch and sighs. “At least I know you.”

“Better the devil you know?”

“Than the devil you don’t, yeah, that’s what they say. I gotta admit, though, Mia could have done a lot worse than you.”

“Oh, hey, there’s a compliment,” Brian says, not feeling particularly offended. “But she could have done a lot better, too,” and his voice is suddenly serious.

“Who the fuck knows, maybe she has. Maybe this guy’s a Kennedy or something.”

Brian laughs. “A Kennedy? Dom, you seriously want your sister out with somebody from that family? Drive their cars off bridges, sleep with anything that stands still long enough—”

“Fuck you, you know what I mean,” Dom says, but he’s laughing, too. “Just…you know, respectable. Politics, money, that kind of thing.”

Brian nods, deadpan. “So next time Mia starts getting calls from Bill Clinton—”

“We are both taking out the shotguns and I don’t care how many Secret Service he’s still got.”

“Amen,” Brian says, and picks up the remote. Dom really must be mellow from the beer, because he—usually the totalitarian ruler of channel-changing—manages a mild glare but doesn’t fight Brian for it.

Not much is on—mostly news, much of it in French, which Brian still barely understands. He keeps flipping—more news, nature shows, sitcoms he doesn’t recognize or isn’t interested in—before a familiar scene appears: two young men, younger than he and Dom are, one white and one South Asian, in a dilapidated laundromat. Brian puts down the remote; Dom looks quizzically at the screen. “What’s this?”

It’s been a while since Brian’s seen this—college, maybe, because for a while he didn’t have time for watching movies, and he wasn’t going to run something like this by Roman. But after everything that’s happened, it’s not worth having secrets anymore. Brian thinks back to the basic plot. “The Pakistani guy, Omar, his uncle just gave him that laundromat to run. The white guy, Johnny, he’s Omar’s friend, and Omar wants Johnny to work for him.”

“And that’s the whole movie?”

“No, just what’s going on in this scene. The movie’s good.”

Dom shrugs, but quiets, and they settle in to watch. It really has been a long time since Brian’s seen this, and there are a number of parts Brian forgot about: Omar’s theft of the drugs from his be-mulleted male cousin; the extravagantly eighties club scene (“Great music,” Dom snorts, and Brian says, “Whatever, it was made in like 1985”); the men’s gathering at Omar’s uncle’s house and the watchful, resentful eyes of Omar’s female cousin.

Even though Brian’s seen this before, it’s still a shock when Johnny slides elegant fingers over Omar’s jaw and kisses him.

Dom sputters. “Holy shit—that guy just kissed the other guy!”

Brian’s about to respond, but they—and the kiss—are interrupted by the noisemaking of Johnny’s former friends. They watch silently, intently—it’s an altercation that could easily grow violent. It doesn’t, though, and Dom’s eyebrows skyrocket when the scene cuts and Omar and Johnny are kissing again, this time in Omar’s car.

“I didn’t think they were gay,” Dom says.

“I don’t think the movie ever really says what they are.”

“So that guy just kissed the other guy without having any idea whether the other guy was going to clock him for it?”

Brian tries to remember the beginning of the movie. “Yeah,” he says. “Basically. But I think— I think you might kind of know anyway.”

Dom looks skeptical. “You ever tried it before?” he asks in a tone suggesting that the question is purely rhetorical.

Brian takes a breath, and admits (an admission on several levels), “Not with somebody I didn’t already know was queer.”

“Wait, hold up.” Dom takes the remote—not to change the channel, but to mute the sound. “You were gay all this time?”

This, too, could turn ugly, and Brian tries to choose the right words. “I didn’t say I was gay,” he replies.

“You said—”

“That I’d kissed guys before. I didn’t say that was the only way I went.”

Dom’s eyes narrow. “Does Mia know?”

Brian is glad to be able to answer honestly, “Yeah. She does now; she did then.”

“So you’re”—this is ground that Dom clearly doesn’t walk often—“bi?”

“Yeah,” Brian says.

“You know all your life?”

“Since I was thirteen, fourteen. Took me a lot longer than that to actually say anything to anybody, though.”

When the next question comes, Brian doesn’t expect, “So why’d it take you this long to tell me?”

He wants some time to think about how to frame his answer, but Dom is looking at him expectantly—maybe even a little hurt, or probably that’s just Brian’s imagination—and Brian blurts out, more candidly than he would have preferred, “I was pretty sure you’d beat the shit out of me.”

“The only thing I want to beat the shit out of you for is sitting on a secret so long,” Dom fires back. “I know I’m a roughneck, but I did grow up in L.A. I know people who swing more kinds of ways than you can think of.” There’s a pause, and Dom says, “We’re cool, man. It blows my mind a little that you could tell me you were a cop but not that you like dudes sometimes, but apart from that we’re cool.”

They finish the movie without further interruption.

  


+||+||+

The following Friday, Brian comes home to much the same situation. Dom looks especially grouchy.

“Mia out again?” Brian guesses.

“Same douchebag from last week,” Dom mutters, and jabs at the remote with unnecessary violence.

“Is he actually a douchebag, or are you just calling him one on general principles?”

“No, he’s actually a douchebag. I met him when he came to pick her up. Shiny shoes and a suit that makes him look like a mortician and the whole deal.”

Brian swallows a laugh and, in another repeat of last week, goes into the kitchen for a beer. He’s about to call out and ask if Dom wants one, except he turns to find Dom leaning on the doorjamb, only a few feet away. Brian proffers the bottle of St-Amboise and Dom takes it, but he doesn’t head back into the living room—instead, he takes one drink of the beer and then sets it on the counter.

Suddenly he’s standing a lot closer than he was before. One hand falls, heavy, warm, and unexpected, on Brian’s shoulder; the other wraps around the nape of his neck. Brian freezes; Dom doesn’t move; he must have muted the television, because everything is so still and silent that it feels as though the apartment is in suspended animation. Brian’s mind, though, is racing, with an onrush of thoughts and nonverbal desires that tumble one over another like clothes in a dryer. He should step back before Dom kicks his ass for wanting this—_except Dom started this, whatever this is_—he should put his hands on Dom, on his hip, on the small of his back—_it’d be like breaking a spell, it’d scare him away_—he doesn’t know what to do—_want this so much, don’t want it to end_.

Dom breaks the stasis they’re in. “I don’t have the balls that guy in the movie did,” he says quietly. “I didn’t— I had to—”

Brian’s hands do move then, with some volition that is not his own, or at least not his consciously. He can feel through the fabric of Dom’s shirt the tight, corded muscles in his back. He looks up and meets Dom’s eyes. It’s been a long time since he kissed anyone his own height, but they fit together, Dom broad where Brian’s slender, solid where Brian’s wiry.

Dom’s fingers twist in Brian’s hair, and the kiss is surprisingly tentative.

With the hand on Dom’s hip, Brian pulls him closer, and this time they're more sure of themselves. They kiss openmouthed, wound together, until Dom’s pressed Brian up against the counter and Brian’s got Dom between his thighs. Brian can feel Dom getting hard, can feel himself getting hard, and it’s good; he shudders as he pulls away for breath, to rest his forehead against Dom’s.

“I didn’t know you wanted this,” Brian says. It’s almost a whisper—the spell again, he thinks. As though this is some kind of spun-glass dream, and if he speaks too loudly, it will break.

“I didn’t know you wanted this,” Dom echoes, voice closer to normal—like they’re bringing this into the real word, and like it might survive.

“I want it,” Brian says.

“Oh, I’ll give it to you,” Dom promises, and Brian can’t help the laughter that escapes. Back in the real world now, and Dom’s grinning at him, like he knows how bad the line was and he’s happy and he doesn’t care. Brian kisses him again, hard, and shudders again when he feels the callused skin of Dom’s palms on his bare back.

Brian has to force himself to pull away and say, “Can we move this somewhere the edge of the counter isn’t digging into my ass?”

“I am not even touching that one,” Dom says, but they relocate to the living room.

The couch is definitely much more comfortable than the kitchen counter. Brian pushes Dom down onto it, and Dom goes—but not before grabbing Brian’s belt loops and pulling Brian with him. Any time Brian allowed himself to think about this (rare, so rare: they had to live together, and it was best not to drive himself crazy), he pictured Dom as a top-at-all-costs guy (maybe it was the name), but now Dom seems perfectly content to let Brian stretch out on top of him and cradle Dom’s head with one hand while they kiss some more. Top or bottom, Brian thinks, Dom likes to know what he was doing, and if he didn’t currently he was probably just as happy to let Brian take charge.

Brian has no problem with that.

Brian runs his fingers up Dom’s stomach—flat from working rather than from working out, all smooth skin and tight sinew—to circle them around and over his nipples. Dom raises his arms, and they strip his shirt off him; then Dom returns the favor. Brian puts his mouth where his fingers were; Dom gasps; Brian adds teeth and is rewarded with a choked-out, “Fuck.”

They’re both completely hard.

_We’ll stop whenever he wants to,_ Brian tells himself. _This has to be newer to him than it is to me; it’s got to be weird; I’ll stop whenever._

Dom fumbles with the top button of Brian’s jeans, and there’s no power in the universe strong enough to keep Brian from undoing them, and from arching into Dom’s hand when it slides under his boxers to wrap around his cock.

Rolling to his side, Brian pulls Dom with him. This way they could both see, both touch. Dom might never have touched a cock apart from his own—Brian isn’t going to ask now, but at some point curiosity is going to overcome him—but Brian has reason to know that Dom’s a fast learner. Brian bites his lip to keep an embarrassing noise down; it takes considerable effort to distract himself from skillful fingers rubbing his glans and teasing his slit before he’s able to get Dom’s fly undone and get his own hand where he wants it.

“Yeah,” Dom breathes as soon as Brian touches him. It’s awkward to kiss and do this at the same time, but it feels amazing—Dom’s cock, silky-hot and hard in Brian’s hand, and Dom’s touch, rough and sure on Brian’s own cock—and Brian can feel and hear Dom moan into his mouth as Brian strokes him.

Sometime they’ll do it slow, when they can draw it out and make each other beg. Brian wants to hear Dom beg for Brian to make him come, wants to lie helpless while Dom wrings pleasure out of him until Brian can’t remember his own name. But this isn't the time for that. Brian feels orgasm begin to rush through him, and he doesn’t fight it—lets it overtake him, convulsive and explosive. This time he doesn’t bite back the sounds, letting Dom have them as he takes Brian through the aftershocks. Dom doesn’t pull away until the last one has pulsed through, and Brian stretches, smiles, replete and lazy.

But not too lazy to push Dom to his back for his turn.

Brian props himself up with one hand and uses the other on Dom. Dom thrusts up into his grip, and Brian kisses him again. One of Dom’s hands clutches at the fabric of the cushions; the other lands on Brian’s upper arm. His fingers dig into Brian’s skin as Brian begins to tease his climax out of him; they’ll leave marks, Brian’s pretty sure, and he hopes they’ll stay for a few days. Remind him.

Dom’s gorgeous when he comes, ferocious and leonine, head thrown back, eyes closed, with a cry like a roar. In the lees of climax, he crushes Brian’s mouth to his, and they kiss, heated and messy, until their heart rates have returned to something closer to normal.

There’s the potential for awkward—except that Dom promptly falls asleep. Brian wants to laugh, but it’s probably easier this way, even though he’ll have to wake Dom up in a little while so that this little tableau isn’t the first thing Mia sees when she returns from her date. And maybe it’ll be awkward, but they’ll work it out. They always do.

Brian watches Dom sleep, and thinks about home, and the strange places where you find it.


End file.
